passing by

Towers and pyramids built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax
pierce the eyes in the sky. Dogs quarrel behind yesteryear’s rain
and yesterday’s soup, pharmacists paint the puddles.
Your relatives would never bring to the grave
your favorite dish. Junk food is prohibited in the hereafter
unless you are Andy Warhol. An awkward figure
on a creaky bicycle wearing a frayed bathrobe
and carrying a scythe in an inept hand passes by
giant dismantled monuments to the last communists
and stranded submarines on fire. Towers and pyramids
built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax have been always surrounded
by oddballs in search of another language.


You can see black sheep
Gracefully moving plumb up the ramparts
Of an old fort. There is no one around that might
Think it’s impossible. No one that could
Give away their eyes. You can see white crows
Ready to get rid of their voices.
No grand piano in the inner courtyard,
No broken keys and strings
To complain about. Tourists are welcome
To curse the weather instead.


I enjoy talking to centaurs and sphinxes and walking totem poles
equipped with surveillance cameras, as much as Linus
and Orpheus were satisfied singing to cabbages, fig trees
and lopsided eggs laid by Thracian birds. I am always happy
to discover their hair in my daily bread. These creatures
spy on humans, follow garbage trucks and notice every smell and broken breath.
They scrutinize, they gaze, they count fallen leaves and wet footprints
and cigarette butts on the pavement and apply specific meanings to their shapes,
meanings charged with who knows what kinky ideas.

{after the comments on behind}


People talk, telephones ring, dogs bark,
suns and moons mostly hide,
earthworms intertwine in the dark.
Cats wail inside flat briefcases,
destined to become immortal.
Creatures devoid of chakras,
hoofed fish, deer with fins
cherish their headless guides.